


Open Your Eyes, Breathe In Life

by BlackUnicorn



Series: Because, Love, We Have Endured [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cats, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Crowley's Plants (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Nice Crowley (Good Omens), Other, Post-Canon, Well - Freeform, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), communication is hard folks, one cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:01:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23576596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackUnicorn/pseuds/BlackUnicorn
Summary: Crowley was staring into the eyes of his nemesis. Big, green eyes, the colour of poisonous ivy, glowering back maliciously and with a hint of victory – it knew it had won. Sharp claws glistened in the afternoon sun and if it had opened its mouth, it would have revealed a row of deathly teeth, ready to rip into its prey. A low rumbling growl sounded from the depths of its throat and Crowley hissed, ready to strike, ready to –“Oh, for pity’s sake, leave her alone, Crowley!”***The problem with not saying things for several thousand years is that it's a particularly hard habit to break. After a while you simply get used to it. To not saying things. You talk around them or maybe through them, under and over them, but never about them, and it's okay, until it suddenly isn't because things change, as they are wont to do. Say, for instance, because you adopt a new addition to your bookshop, and it all goes pear-shaped and you're forced to name the unnameable. Purely, hypothetically, of course.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Because, Love, We Have Endured [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1697107
Comments: 6
Kudos: 125





	Open Your Eyes, Breathe In Life

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you're all keeping save.  
> These are hard times and I apologise for the angst. My brain is not dealing so well with everything going on and this is my coping mechanism.  
> This is kind of a prequel to 'Our Gentle Sin' but it's not really connected and you can view them as totally separate stories if you like.

Crowley was staring into the eyes of his nemesis. Big, green eyes, the colour of poisonous ivy, glowering back maliciously and with a hint of victory – it knew it had won. Sharp claws glistened in the afternoon sun and if it had opened its mouth, it would have revealed a row of deathly teeth, ready to rip into its prey. A low rumbling growl sounded from the depths of its throat and Crowley hissed, ready to strike, ready to –

“Oh, for pity’s sake, leave her alone, Crowley!”

Both Crowley and his nemesis startled at the voice of Aziraphale, breaking the intense staring contest to look at the angel who was standing in the doorway to the bookshop’s backroom with a tray of tea and biscuits in his hands.

“She started it,” Crowley said, sounding decidedly non-petulant, thankyouverymuch.

Aziraphale let out a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh but otherwise didn’t deign Crowley’s words with a response, instead setting down the tray on a nearby table that definitely hadn’t been there before and crouching down in front of the creature that had taken up Crowley’s space on the sofa.

“Come here, darling,” Aziraphale said, opening his arms and the creature obediently stood up and stepped into the angel’s embrace, but not without throwing an incredibly smug look at Crowley who could do nothing but stand by and watch as the Angel – his Angel – picked up the grey Maine Coon cat and cradled it in his plump arms, “There we go, love,” Aziraphale muttered, “You shouldn’t take it personal. He really is quite a nice Demon.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, a fruitless warning and an empty threat as they both very well knew, since no one was watching them anymore. They were free.

“Hush, dear. Emma has a right to know.”

Crowley sputtered, staring at the angel and the cat. “Em – Emma?!” he asked incredulously, “You gave it a name?”

Aziraphale finally looked up from the beast in his arms, frowning ever so slightly, as he answered, “Of course I gave her a name. She’s staying, after all.”

_Oh, is she?_ He wanted to ask, wanted to protest, but of course he knew a lost fight when he saw one and this particular fight had been lost the second the beastly thing had strolled into the bookshop as if it belonged there and then had had the audacity to ogle Aziraphale’s breakfast bacon. So, instead of answering, Crowley satisfied himself with glaring at the cat one last time and letting out a threatening hiss which Emma answered in kind.

“Really, dear,” Aziraphale tutted, leaving it unclear who he actually meant. Not that it mattered, really. Crowley knew a lost fight when he saw one.

“Right. Gotta go. See ya, angel. Have a good one,” the demon called out as he left the bookshop, already planning the demise of his arch enemy, the beastliest beast of them all – Emma.

* * *

Aziraphale blinked rapidly, staring at the closed door that Crowley had left through mere seconds ago. Emma was comfortably snuggled into his arms, rubbing her face against Aziraphale’s chin and purring happily.

“Oh. Oh, my dear,” he said to the cat, absentmindedly patting her back, “Whatever has gotten into him now, do you think?”

Emma’s answer was an even more insistent purr as she kneaded her paws into his shoulder.

“You really are quite lovely,” the angel continued, sitting down in his armchair, “I just wish he would see that. I’m sure you’d be great friends if he just gave you a chance.”

Emma was, lovely that is. She’d wandered in just a few days ago and apparently decided to stay. Aziraphale didn’t mind, really. It was nice to have a companion around for when Crowley was off doing whatever it was he did, when he wasn’t at the bookshop.

_Causing mischief, I presume_ , Aziraphale thought with a smile on his face as he tightened his hold around Emma just so.

The last couple of weeks, since the world hadn’t ended, had been surreal. Lunches had turned into dinner had turned into drunken nights at the bookshop, had all blurred together into a single, long, overwhelming bubble of happiness.

They were free.

After six thousand years of _I’m an Angel_ , and _you’re a Demon_ , they’re finally free.

“I just wish –” Aziraphale let out a deep, heavy sigh, lifting his hand to scratch Emma behind her lovely, bushy ears, “But no. He would have said something by now, surely.” Emma looked up at him with eyes so similar to Crowley’s, except for the part were they really weren’t, green and feline rather than yellow and serpentine, making Aziraphale’s heart ache with want. “Or maybe he’s waiting for me,” Aziraphale mused on, allowing the cat to lick the back of his hand, “I’ve been ever so cruel to him, haven’t I? Denying our friendship, denying him. But what else was I to do? I simply couldn’t risk it.” It sounded weak, even to his own ears, because that had been then, and this was now and yet nothing had changed. He knew, of course…Aziraphale knew exactly just how deep Crowley’s feelings ran – how could he not? He was an angel, a being of Love, and an emotion so strong and pure left a mark on the world, a trail, and it didn’t take much for Aziraphale to see it, to follow it, and Crowley…Crowley’s love was like the ocean, deep and vast and beautiful and terrifying, a storm so violent it threatened to destroy and drown everything in its wake, and Aziraphale had to fight to keep afloat.

He knew.

And yet he’d rejected Crowley time and time again.

And yet he’d been wilfully ignorant to the love that embraced him whenever the Demon was near.

And yet he kept quiet even now that they were free to do as they pleased.

“Oh, bother,” he said to the cat in his arms and the bookshop at large, “I really have made quite the mess of things, haven’t I?”

Emma remained silent, safe for the purring, deep and low and happy, as she blinked up at him, slowly and deliberately, and it nearly shattered Aziraphale’s heart to see one of Her creations cradled in his arms, this little, fragile bundle of life, that trusted him so completely, and he wished and wished and wished –

_Maybe one day_ , he’d said all those years ago in the shine of flickering neon lights as he had offered his heart along with a tartan thermos filled with holy water.

_Maybe now_ , he thought, sitting in his bookshop filled with stories of love and loss and bravery, _maybe it’s time_.

* * *

“Hurtsss, doesn’t it?” Crowley hissed, “You try and you try and you try and then you realissse, no matter what you do, it will never be enough.” Around him, the plants trembled in terror. “No matter how much you give, there will alwaysss be someone who gives more.” The plant currently subjected to Crowley’s wrath shivered. It was one of the oldest; beautiful, green leaves, spotless, if slightly drooped. Crowley had let it slide for the longest time because it was old and it was trying its best but now – “You lose,” he concluded, picking up the terrified plant and carrying it out of the room towards the garbage disposal which had never actually disposed of any garbage, let alone plants, because, bless it all, despite everything Crowley still found himself unable to do so.

There was a balcony going out from the kitchen, a balcony which shouldn’t have been and which, as far as the outside of the building was concerned, didn’t exist and yet here it was, filled with even more plants. These plants were different, small and crooked, with spots and holes in their leaves. Less green. Less beautiful. Less perfect.

_There is no such thing as absolute perfection_ , good old Leo had said just after he’d gifted Crowley his first draft of the Mona Lisa. Not that Crowley had needed telling. Even Aziraphale – sweet, soft, smart Aziraphale – was far from perfect. It had taken Crowley a good 3000 years to reach that conclusion, mind, but he’d gotten there, in the end. And it had changed nothing. In fact, an argument could be made that that particular revelation had made him love the Angel even more – it was all very frustrating, Crowley found.

“This is your last chance,” he told the plant now, setting it down among its peers, “Don’t mess it up.” The threat fell short however, when he stroked the leaves with gentle fingers, soothingly, and none of the other plants shook with fear – they knew nothing would happen to them. Not here. Not anymore.

Leaving the plants to their own devices, Crowley went back inside and sprawled on his throne, putting his feet up on the table. Long, grey hairs were clinging to his trousers, and even when Crowley glared at them with all his might, they stubbornly stayed where they were.

_That bloody cat…_

Things had been going so well, After. The wine had flown freely, they’d had Crepes in Paris and Sushi in Tokyo and a picnic in St. James Park and Crowley had to admit that, perhaps, things had been going a little bit too well.

_Or perhaps it’s my own blessed fault for getting my hopes up._

Groaning loudly, Crowley let his head fall back and stared at the ceiling. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” he called out, “Put an apple tree in the middle of a garden and then tell everyone not to touch it – why’d you put it there if no one’s supposed to touch it?” The ceiling didn’t answer, it never did, and Crowley sighed, shaking his head, “Why do I even bother?” he muttered, to himself, to Her, to whole bloody universe.

Emma’s fur was still on his trousers, a bitter reminder that, no matter how much he gave, no matter how much he tried, there was, apparently, someone who gave more without even trying.

_I lose…_

* * *

Night came and went and Aziraphale was still sitting in the exact same spot in his armchair. He had used the past few hours to think himself into a fretful state, unable even to concentrate on his favourite book. The cup of tea next to him was still full, and Aziraphale had lost count of how many times he’d let it grow cold, only to heat back up with a quick snap of his fingers, though he never got around to drinking it.

“What do you think? The Ritz? But that wouldn’t be anything special, would it? We always go to the Ritz. Now, I do have that lovely gin I found the other day, the one that dear Agatha gave me, you see. I’d completely forgotten about it. Maybe we could go for another picnic. Not in the park, mind you, somewhere we haven’t been before. What do you think?”

Emma apparently didn’t think anything if her silence was anything to go by. She wasn’t even listening. The cat was sprawled out on the sofa, taking up all the space, evidently asleep, and Aziraphale deflated.

“You’re right, of course. I’m being awfully silly…what’s the worst that can happen?”

Now that, Aziraphale decided, was a rabbit hole all by itself that he should most definitely not go down.

And yet.

“Of course,” he went on, graciously ignoring the fact that his audience was asleep, “He could have changed his mind. Maybe I waited too long. Maybe he believed the things I said. I can assure, I didn’t. I would never – but it must have sounded truly horrible, I admit. It _was_ truly horrible. Could I take it back, I would, in a heartbeat, but I _can’t_ …”

Over the millennia, Aziraphale had collected many regrets, a long list of things he’d done that he wished he hadn’t, and the way he’d treated Crowley accounted for about half of those.

“Oh, why does this have to be so complicated?”

It never seemed this hard in the books. Characters found inspiration and courage in always the right times and places, confessions of love happened in poetic beauty, and no one ever mentioned the sheer terror that accompanied it all. The doubt and uncertainty.

And maybe it was coincidence or maybe it was fate or maybe Aziraphale’s very own and very unwanted poetic beauty, but it was in that moment that the bell above the bookshop door chimed and one Serpent of Eden came sauntering in, a bag of delicious smelling pastries in hand.

“Morning, angel. Got you breakfast,” Crowley announced, unceremonially dumping the bag on the little table next to Aziraphale’s armchair, before staring at Emma on the sofa. Even with the sunglasses firmly in place and effectively hiding the demon’s eyes, Aziraphale could see the contempt they held.

“Oh, thank you, dear,” the Angel said, smiling brightly. Maybe a little too brightly. “I’ll make some tea, shall I?”

If Crowley had heard him, he didn’t acknowledge his words, simply kept staring at Emma who kept on sleeping, while Aziraphale made a quick retreat to the kitchen for tea and regrouping.

_Be brave_ , he told himself, _that’s all it takes. He already offered you his hand, all you have to do is take it_.

* * *

Crowley was distantly aware that Aziaphale had left the room, but his attention was on the beast on the sofa. His sofa. Emma wasn’t asleep anymore, but rather watching the demon with wary eyes as he crouched down low and hissed, “You think you’re ssso clever. Coming in here, taking my place? You’re not. You’re nothing special.” If the cat was bothered by Crowley’s words, it didn’t show. “I should just eat you,” Crowley went on, “He’d never even have to know. Cats run away all the time. They get hit by cars. It happens.”

Aziraphale would be upset, sure, but he’d get over it. Eventually.

_And I could be his shoulder to cry on_ , an entirely too nasty sounding voice in the back of his mind suggested, that Crowley immediately shut down and ignored.

Of course, for the same reason why none of his plats had ever been acquainted with the garbage disposal, no harm would befall Emma. Crowley had, after all, always been quite a nice Demon.

_Bless you, Aziraphale._

“Who are you talking, my dear?”

And speak of the Angel – there he was, standing in the doorway in all his divine, heavenly might, holding two steaming cups of tea in his hands, a set of angel wings and a devil’s tail, “No one,” Crowley answered quickly sitting back on his heels, grateful for the sunglasses that were still perching on the bridge of his nose, hiding his eyes, while Emma triumphantly stretched out on the sofa.

Not that Aziraphale believed him; it was there, in the subtle rise of his eyebrows, and the twitch of his lips, even if he didn’t say it, like they didn’t say so many things. Two people-shaped entities that could read each other like open books, but secretly, never out loud, never admitting, never showing. But always aware. It was a dance as old as time, performed on a tightrope, with no safety net; a carefully learned act of 6000 years and the world was their stage, and Crowley knew what would come next. What would always come next.

And then it didn’t.

* * *

There is a moment, just before you act on a desire, before you do something brave, something extraordinary, something stupid. A moment between making a decision and acting on it. There is a disconnect there, between yourself and the rest of the world.

There was a disconnect there now, between Aziraphale and the bookshop. He could feel his stupidly human heart pounding in its ribcage-prison, could hear his stupidly human blood rushing through its veins, could see himself stand there, carrying two cups of tea, staring at Crowley who looked like a child caught with its hand in the biscuit tin.

The decision had been made, but in that split-of-a-second moment in-between, the world stood still.

“I rather think we should talk,” Aziraphale spoke the possibly most terrifying sentence known to Her creation. Crowley froze where he was squatting on the floor and Aziraphale could have sworn that he even stopped breathing, the poor dear. “You see,” he soldiered on, quite grateful that Crowley remained silent, making it both incredibly harder and incredibly easier to get the words out. If he found them first, that is. Aziraphale had always loved stories, but for all that he collected them, he never quite understood how to spin his own, how to fabricate worlds from words. Whenever he tried, they seemed to escape him, rendering him awfully, frustratingly speechless. “You see,” he tried again, setting the cups down on the table that, once again, conveniently shifted into the right position, “These past few weeks have been wonderful, if I do say so myself. I can’t express how truly glad I am that the world didn’t end, as it was, and that we get to see more of it. Truly glad, indeed.” _That I get to see it with you_. “And, as much as I enjoy our – our relationship, so to speak, as it is, I feel, maybe, we ought to – that is, maybe it’s time to move forward, wouldn’t you agree, dear?”

Crowley remained utterly silent, staring up at Aziraphale from behind his sunglasses, and Aziraphale frowned.

“What I mean to say is,” he went on, hoping to make Crowley understand, “With Emma as an addition to the shop, it has become rather domestic, has it not? Now I know you’re not overly fond of her, but I assure she’s really quite darling and I do hope that you’ll warm up to her, however…however…” He trailed off, taking a look around his cluttered bookshop. His bookshop that had been lost forever even if it had been just for a few hours. His bookshop that had been his home for so long. His bookshop that, ever since Adam’s reset of the world, simply felt _off_ ; as if someone had shifted all the furniture just an inch to the left, as if all the nooks and crannies between the books that held myriads of memories were suddenly empty. “However, perhaps, moving forward – that is – I have been thinking, quite recently, I admit, and yet – I’ve been thinking that perhaps it would do good to leave the city for a while. Breathe some fresh air. The countryside, maybe, somewhere close to the sea. Somewhere with less noise and less people and Emma could go hunting for birds in the garden.”

Crowley was still silent. A screaming and deafening kind of silent, so loud, it made Aziraphale’s ears ring.

“Crowley?”

A sudden jerk went through the Demon’s body, sending Emma into a hissing fit which both Crowley and Aziraphale ignored as Crowley scrambled to his feet.

“Crowley, dear, what –”

“Sounds great, angel!” Crowley cut him off, his voice too loud all of a sudden, strained and forced and Aziraphale’s frown only deepened, “I just – er – remembered – I got – stuff.”

_Stuff?_ Aziraphale wanted to ask, _what stuff?_ But Crowley was already moving, walking towards the door, his shoulders one tense line and his hands shaking.

“Crowley!”

“See ya, angel!”

And for second time in two days Crowley stormed out of the shop, leaving behind a rather bewildered Aziraphale.

“I – I don’t understand,” he said to the empty room, turning around to look at Emma, “Did I get it wrong?”

Emma looked up at him, her eyes filled with judgement and Aziraphale let out a heavy sigh as he lowered himself into his armchair, trying to understand what had just happened.

* * *

Crowley was already halfway to Mayfair when he realised, he’d forgotten the Bentley, too caught up in his own head and the effort it took to not send the entirety of London into mindless chaos. He couldn’t go back of course. Not now. Not after what had just happened. Aziraphale had made it perfectly clear that they were done – that _moving forward_ meant moving down separate paths. He shouldn’t be surprised, really. The world was saved, the Arrangement over, and who was Crowley to force his presence onto Aziraphale now that they were free of any and all obligations?

Oh, he knew that, deep down, Aziraphale did care for him, loved him even, perhaps, but what good was that knowledge when the Angel was leaving London to get even further away from Crowley?

_We’re not friends_ , Aziraphale had said, _I don’t even like you_.

Crowley had been sure, so, so, very sure, that he hadn’t meant it. Not really. Words said in the spur of the moment. And Aziraphale had a track record of lashing out whenever he felt cornered

Except…

What if he’d gotten it all wrong?

What if Aziraphale truly didn’t like him?

What if this was it?

_Maybe I should do it too_ , Crowley mused as he stepped into his cold, empty flat, _maybe I should get out of London. Go somewhere else, start over…_

The plants trembled in trepidation as he passed but couldn’t even find the energy for a simple sneer.

_Where would I even go?_

There was something to be said about being a supernatural entity. It was all about belief. Imagination. The power of the mind. And the strongest thing on Crowley’s mind right now was forgetting. He wasn’t in the habit of keeping a lot of edible things in his flat and yet, when he entered his throne room, there was a whole table with drinks waiting for him. Wine and whisky and gin and something that resembled rubbing alcohol more than anything. Without even seeing what it was, Crowley picked up the first bottle and drank, not tasting, merely relishing in the burn of the liquid as it ran down his throat, as hot tears wetted his cheeks, as he screamed himself hoarse and then kept screaming and screaming and screaming. As he prepared for an eternity without Aziraphale. An eternity alone.

* * *

“… _You know what to do. Do it with style_.”

“ _Oh, hello Crowley, it’s me, Aziraphale. I just noticed that you left your car here and wanted to make sure you got home alright. Well, do call me back, dear boy, and take care_.”

“ _Crowley, it’s me, Aziraphale. Your car is still here. Are you quite alright? Call me_.”

“ _It’s me, Aziraphale. I do wish you’d just pick up the phone. I feel quite ridiculous talking to your machine. Anyway, please call me back_.”

“ _Crowley, it’s – what am I saying, you know who it is. I’m worried, dear. It’s been almost a month and your car is still here. I know how much you love that death-trap of yours and it’s really quite unlike you to simply abandon it like this. Call me back as soon as you get this_.”

“ _My dear, I – I don’t know why I keep calling. You obviously don’t wish to talk to me and I – I simply don’t understand. Have I done something wrong? I do wish you’d just talk to me. I realise what I said must have come as quite a surprise to you but I assure you, I meant every word of it…please. Emma misses you_.”

“ _I’m sorry, Crowley. Whatever I did to upset you like this. I’m truly sorry, Please call me back, so we can talk about it_.”

“ _The shop always feels too empty when you’re not there, did you know that? Even with Emma, it simply isn’t the same. And, of course, ever since Adam…I’ll always know it was gone and now it feels different, somehow. That’s the reason why started thinking about leaving, you know? Because it feels different now_.”

“ _Crowley, dear, I really am getting worried. Please call me back_.”

“ _I miss you. Please call me_.”

* * *

_That’s it_ , Aziraphale decided, all but slamming the receiver back onto the phone, emotions bubbling in his chest, under his skin, threatening to spill over. Too many to name. Too strong to ignore.

Two months had gone by now, since Crowley had stormed out of his shop, leaving his car and a very bewildered Aziraphale behind, and Aziraphale had tried, he really had, to give Crowley his space, but enough was enough.

_And who knows what he might have gotten up to?_

It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t trust Crowley, very much the opposite, actually, but Crowley was still a Demon and he still liked his mischief. Not that he’d noticed anything, recently. In fact, London seemed positively peaceful, with only minimal traffic jams for a city such as this one. The telephone network was working just fine, as was the internet and television, as far as Aziraphale could see, anyway, but he wasn’t an expert in those things.

“Oh, I hope he’s doing okay,” he said to Emma but, for once, didn’t wait for a reply but instead stepped outside onto the street and then down, past the Bentley, towards Mayfair. Aziraphale had only ever been to Crowley’s flat once, that one night after the Apocalypse hadn’t happened, and everything had seemed just that much too bright, too loud, too surreal, and his memory was maybe a tiny bit hazy, but he still knew exactly where he was going. Or, perhaps, it would be more accurate to say that the streets knew exactly where he wanted to go and bend over backwards to lead him there as quickly and safely as possible.

“Crowley?”

The flat was eerily quiet and the fact that the door had just swung open was not what one might call reassuring. Of course, doors, as a general rule, didn’t pose a problem for any even half-respectable celestial being, but, as all rules went, there were exceptions, and Crowley’s door was one of them. Or should have been, at any rate. And yet…

“Crowley!” His voice was quivering. Not by much, mind, but just enough to be noticeable. There was something in the air, mingled with the dust, that sent shivers down Aziraphale’s spine, something like a reversed shadow, like an echo of the future travelling backwards through time. The plants, once luscious and vivid and beautiful, seemed to be barely clinging on to life, leaves hanging low and sad with a tint of sickly yellow, the sight bringing tears to Aziraphale’s eyes.

“Oh dear,” he whispered to himself as he crossed the room, catching a glance of the table in the next one, a table littered with empty bottles, a table which posed as a pillow for a head of bright red hair, “Oh, dear, what –”

Crowley was snoring into the wood, the stench of alcohol and vomit hanging in the air, and something inside Aziraphale snapped, tears spilling over and running down his cheeks.

_What have I done?_

* * *

_Crowley was in Heaven, his hair vibrant and red like fire, dancing in the light of the Host. His eyes like liquid gold. His wings a mirror of the galaxies he built. And he could feel Her – her love, her beauty, her presence, in his every fibre, every cell, every feather. There was another Angel there, with him, younger and smaller but no less beautiful, with white wings and white hair and eyes like the sky on a perfect summer day and a smile to rival the sun._

_“_ I’m sorry, my dear _,” the other Angel spoke, “_ I’m so, so sorry _.” And then his wings caught fire. There was nothing Crowley could do but watch in horror as the other Angel screamed in agony, as his wings turned black, as Her love was ripped from his chest and he Fell and Fell and Fell._

_She was in Golgotha, a black veil covering her face, and up on the cross was Aziraphale, divine and hallow, the blood dripping from his hands, eyes fixed on Crowley, pleading._

_“_ Please. _”_

_He was in Paris and he was too late, watching the blade fall down, watching Aziraphale’s head roll and roll and roll until it came to a stop right in front of Crowley’s feet, a look of horror and pain carved into the angel’s lifeless features._

_“_ Why? _”_

_He was in London and he was too late. His feet burned as he stood on holy ground and yet he did not move, staring at Aziraphale, eyes closed and a hole on his head._

_“_ Please forgive me, my dear _.” The Angel’s voice echoes off the walls of the church. “_ I never meant to hurt you _.” If Crowley concentrated, he could see Aziraphale’s wings, spread out behind him. “_ And yet that is always what I seem to do _.”_

“’ng’l?”

“Right here, darling.”

He was enveloped by darkness, his head pounding and his mind sluggish, filled with smog and fog and barbed wire that cut into him at every thought and every movement.

“Angel?”

“Yes, Crowley, dear. I’m right here and I’ll look over you. You’re safe.” Something touched his forehead, soft and soothing, drawing the pain out like poison. “I’ll take care of you.” It was warm here, wherever here was, warm and safe, like the thing touching his forehead, clearing the fog in his brain.

Slowly, Crowley blinked. It was still dark, but different, somehow, smoother. As if the razor-sharp edges surrounding him had been filed down. And he wasn’t alone.

“’zzziraphale?” he slurred, his tongue too heavy and too split, tripping over the word, but the dark shape next to him sat up a little straighter, nonetheless.

“I’m here,” the shape answered and the thing that had been resting on Crowley’s forehead disappeared, leaving him cold and wanting, “How are you feeling, my dear?”

“Nghk.”

“I made tea,” Aziraphale announced, completely ignoring the fact that Crowley did not own a single teabag in his flat. Not that Crowley was complaining. His mouth felt like something died in in. Twice. And his brain was thumping a steady drumbeat against his skull, making it considerably hard to form coherent thoughts, let alone words.

“Hmm’k.”

The tea was nice, comforting, allowing Crowley to breathe a little deeper, a little steadier, as his brain came back online, slowly, very slowly, but surely, nonetheless.

The silence was nice, too. Even with the unspoken questions hanging in the air between them, it wasn’t tense, wasn’t awkward, wasn’t anything but perfectly pleasant and patient.

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, lulled into the safety of darkness, each in their own little bubble, and yet together. It wouldn’t take much to reach out and touch, Crowley knew, they were so close, but no. Not yet.

_Maybe never…_

“Why’d you come?” Crowley finally made himself ask, breaking the spell that had settled over them, his words barely more than a whisper but there was no question that Aziraphale had heard him loud and clear.

When the Angel answered, his voice was just as soft, just as cautious. “I was quite worried about you. I called, several times but you never answered.” He let out a deep breath. “I should have come sooner.”

“Thought you’d have left by now,” Crowley muttered, unable, or maybe unwilling, to keep the trace of bitterness out of his voice. He wasn’t sure which, and it wasn’t like it mattered. Not anymore.

“Without you?” Aziraphale asked, his dark figure shaking his head, “I don’t think so.”

“’s what you wanted, inni’?”

“Never.” The intensity of that one word startled Crowley. For all that Aziraphale was an almost chronic liar, he was also chronically bad at it, and Crowley couldn’t detect anything but raw sincerity in the Angel now. “My dear,” Aziraphale began, fingertips brushing against Crowley’s hand before retreating just as quickly, “I seem to be spectacularly good at messing things up quite a bit and, the perhaps worst thing is, I never do it intentionally and I only ever realise what I did when it’s already too late.”

“What’re you talking about, angel?”

There was a soft, wet sound coming from the Angel’s direction, like a chuckle but infinitely sadder. “I’m talking about you, my dear.” Out of everything Aziraphale could have said, that certainly was the last thing Crowley had expected, but before he could do as much as take a deep breath, the Angel was already barrelling on, “I never intended on going anywhere without you, assuming, foolish as I was, that that was obvious. I got it wrong. I do that impressively often, considering…” He trailed off, his breath shaky and audible in the complete silence between them, but this time, Crowley didn’t even try to say something, didn’t even know what he could possibly say. “I had wished for us to go together, if – if you had wanted, that is. I – that is to say – I was hoping – oh bother!”

“Angel –”

“I really rather love you, you know?” Aziraphale blurted out, effectively rendering Crowley speechless, “Another thing I’d though obvious. Another thing I got wrong. And to think…You have never been anything but kind to me, Crowley, and I know – _I know_ – that you don’t condone that sort of language, but you are. You are kind. And you are so loved.”

Crowley tried – he really did – to come up with something, anything, but his mind was blank.

“Crow –”

“Ssshut up,” Crowley hissed, staring at the dark on dark shadow that was the Angel, tongue too long and too split to form proper words, tripping over the sounds, as he snapped his fingers. Above their heads, the lights came to life, a warm, soft glow, illuminating Aziraphale’s face, laying bare the sheer fear edged into his every line. “You – you can’t jussst sssay thingsss like that.”

Aziraphale smiled, lopsided and wrong, and just as the chuckle his smile was sad. “I’m sorry.”

What exactly, the Angel was apologising for was beyond Crowley, and his stupid tongue still wasn’t cooperating. He did, however, manage to shake his head. Or maybe that just make it worse. The smile was still there, still sad, and his eyes glistened in the light overhead with unshed tears, making everything seem blurry, or perhaps they were Crowley’s tears, burning and hot and too much…

“You can’t just sssay things like that,” he repeated, his own voice strangled and overflowing with too many emotions to name, “Not unlesss you mean them.” And now that Crowley had started talking, it seemed impossible to stop, the words pouring out of him as the dams broke. “And don’t sssay it’s obvious, ‘cause it’sss not. You’ve done it before, you know? Plenty of times. Sssay thingsss you don’t mean. And I can’t – I can’t – you need to be sure about this, Aziraphale, ‘cause I don’t think I can do thisss if you’re not, if I lost you again –” That thought alone was enough to get any other words stuck in his throat and his mind to shut down.

Aziraphale looked at him, open and vulnerable and earnest, a single, wayward tear trekking down his perfectly round cheek. “I love you,” he said, the words filled with wonder, sending shivers down Crowley’s spine, “My dear, darling demon.”

Slowly, clearly giving Crowley plenty of time to back away, Azirapahle reached out with his hand, gentle, thick fingers tracing the line of Crowley’s jaw, carefully cupping his face, a thump caressing his cheekbone.

“I love you,” the Angel said, once again. A benediction, reverent and devout. “And I am sorry for not saying it sooner.”

Just as slowly, he leaned in, and Crowley had no intentions whatsoever to stop him, would let Aziraphale do anything he wanted, and then a pair of soft lips pressed against his forehead, hallowing and sinful all at once.

There was a great deal Crowley could have said, then.

_I love you, too._

_I forgive you._

_Let’s go forward, together._

But for now, he remained silent, basking in the touch and the love of his Angel, eyes closed and breathing in deeply the scent of old books, and hot cocoa and centuries gone by in the blink of an eye

* * *

Aziraphale was making tea for the two of them, back in the cluttered kitchen of his bookshop. A plate of biscuits was already waiting on the tray next to him, fresh and tempting.

Carrying the tray into the next room, he barely supressed a chuckle when he saw Crowley once again engrossed in a staring contest with Emma.

“Leave her alone,” he told the old snake, his voice overflowing with fondness.

“She started it,” Crowley replied, sticking his tongue out at the cat who blinked, looking rather unimpressed.

Aziraphale set the tray down on the table that, for once, didn’t have to move anywhere, and sat down in his own, battered armchair.

“Come here, darling,” he said, patting his lap, and his darling did.

Crowley sighed as he settled onto Aziraphale’s soft thighs, allowing the Angel to put his arms around his slim frame, hugging him tightly, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s cheek that made him blush beautifully.

They’d returned to the bookshop a week ago and hadn’t left since. It still felt _off_ but less so with Crowley around to fill the empty spaces with his cutting-sharp edges and his feather-soft smiles and his heart so enormous, so big, so full of love, it made everything else seem small in comparison. Trivial.

“I love you,” he whispered into Crowley’s hair, like red like copper, like the setting sun, like leaves in late August just before they sauntered vaguely downwards, as Crowley had, all those many, many years ago. The Demon, _his_ Demon, shivered at the words, melting into the embrace, the blush creeping higher and higher still up his neck.

And when Emma climbed into Crowley’s lap with a slightly indignant _meow_ and Crowley barely let out a sound of complaint at getting fur all over his clothes, Aziraphale decided that he could wait a bit longer to mention the quaint, little cottage in the South Downs. The one that was just five minutes away from the beach and fifteen minutes away from the village. The one that had a garden and a library and a fireplace. The one that would, miraculously, stay empty until they had made a decision. It could wait because for now, they were home, and that was enough.


End file.
